


a storm in the quiet

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Spoilers, post spyfall part 2, thasmin, tw:panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:56:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22190674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: The ship around her hums, the sound resonating within the bone marrow shielding her unyielding brain. It’s enough to lull her thoughts into a mild hum at the back of her mind again.For now, at least.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 38
Kudos: 160





	a storm in the quiet

_Pires on fire; the remnants of villages, towns; a whole city distorted by smoke and flames and ruthless behaviour._

The Doctor’s bottom lip twitches and she gives her head a shake to rattle her thoughts back into order, sinking to her knees beside the console so to better reach the wiring. The panel falls open with a click and a tug, exposing copper cables and golden cylinders in a tangled mess of engineering work.

She slides her tools over and plucks her solder from its confines, waiting patiently for smoke to rise from its apex before she gets down to business. 

_I took a trip home, to Gallifrey — hiding in its little bubble universe. Not sure how to describe what I found. Pulverised? Burned? Nuked? All of the above. Everyone killed. Everything burned._

The Doctor gasps as the instrument slips, scolding metal burning a hole into her new jumper and searing into otherwise unblemished skin. Determining the wound too small to pay attention to, she continues on, teeth gritted to alleviate the tremble to her fingertips. “Old girl? Can you do me a favour?”

The ship around her hums, the sound resonating within the bone marrow shielding her unyielding brain. It’s enough to lull her thoughts into a mild hum at the back of her mind again. 

For now, at least. 

“Play some music for me?” she requests, voice catching on the last syllable when her hand starts to throb. The initial surprise is wearing off, leaving her vulnerable and suffering. “Buniatishvili will do.” 

The TARDIS obliges, the first few chords of a piano seeping through the console and into the room.

“Uh-uh.” Tapping the grates beneath her knees, the Doctor sighs. “In my head, please.” 

The music wavers off into nothingness, then returns in ebbs and flows to the pilot’s subconscious. “Thanks, love.” 

Piano in a flourish behind her eyes, she returns to her work, twisting cables into looping strands before she fuses and moulds them together. 

_When I say someone did that, obviously I meant… I did. I had to make them pay for what I discovered._

A spark catches at her fingers, startling her from the memories taking refuge in her thoughts. 

“Stop,” the Doctor sighs, aiming the imperative at her reflection in the surface above her head. She relocates her hold and tries the same, intricate pattern of workings again, willing her hands to steady themselves. 

It’s no use when only a second later another flicker of light and a sharp sting shoots through her hands and along her forearms. 

The tendrils of piano music fall away, giving way to resentment. 

“Seriously?” she bites, glancing up into the golden domes above. 

_They lied to us. The founding fathers of Gallifrey. Everything we were told was a_ **_lie._ **

She’s one soldered wire from a finished job when the console ignites before her eyes again, sending warning sparks towards her in quick succession. 

_The whole existence of our species, built on the lie of the timeless child._

She sinks back onto her heels with a groan, reaching for the hammer at her side and all but snarling at the panels before her. “Shut _up.”_

A fizzling, warning sort of whirr emits from the ship’s central column as though it can predict her movements, but, pupils dark, chest rising and falling with loud, heavy breaths, she can’t find it in herself to care. 

_I’d tell you more, but why would I make it easy for you? It wasn’t for me._

She doesn’t hear the groan which leaves her lips, nor the protests from her ship when she wrenches the hammer in the direction of her recent improvements and lets it clang against fused metal cables and pipes. 

“It —” another clang, another surge of electricity from the console. “ — is _not_ —” She stands, then, sweeping the hammer over perfectly formed controls and busting the nearest lever out of shape. “ — _gone.”_

A chip of golden crystal flies across the room when she turns, finding the hammer a new home against the pillars surrounding her like watchful eyes. She’s had enough of being watched; enough of being spied; enough of spies; enough of the spymaster. 

There’s a stark contrast between staying away from home and not having one at all. 

When the ship surges through her thoughts with a pleading request to control herself, accompanied by a deafening cry, the Doctor slumps to the floor with a breathless sob, her back to a shattered pillar. The hammer is tossed, connecting with a hexagonal wall panel and shattering the glass surface before it falls to the floor. 

She kicks a foot out, sending her toolbox clattering across the floor so she can fold in on herself and bury her head between shaking hands. 

From the corridor, three pairs of eyes focus, stunned, on the quivering form curled up and suffering in the quiet of the night. 

“Go back to bed,” Yaz whispers to her best friends, shoulders tensing when she catches the tail end of a muffled sob. “I’ll shout if I need you, okay?”

With a pat to her shoulder, a half-asleep Graham turns on his heel to head for his room. “Good luck, cockle.”

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” Ryan counters, rocking on his toes, always eager to help despite how hapless the situation seems. 

Sending him a grateful twitch of her lips, Yaz takes a slow inhale which is equally as drawn-out when she sighs. “Should be fine. Thanks, though. I just know she doesn’t like being crowded, so if we’re going to find out who’s made her feel like this, I’d better take this one alone.” 

Ryan nods solemnly, knowing full-well the soft spot the Doctor holds for Yaz despite how much they both try to hide it. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do, alright?” 

“Course,” Yaz breathes, toying at the sleeve of her hoodie and puffing her chest. “Go on, I’ve got this.” 

The Doctor can hear the racing of Yaz’s heart before she feels her presence approaching, tentative, careful, and a little fearful.

The latter sense coaxes a whimpered, choking sort of noise from the back of her throat which she muffles against her sleeve in a desperate attempt to keep quiet. 

She is to be feared, not to be comforted. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Yaz starts, her voice an unexpected whisper. “But you’re hurting and I’m your —” she pauses, swallowing her pride. “Whatever I am to you, I want to make sure you’re okay.”

When the Doctor refuses to draw her head up from the tops of her knees, Yaz fidgets, sleeves pulled over her hands. So much for police training. “And if you’re _not_ okay, I want to help.” 

The time lord sniffs, brushing the back of her hand over pinkened cheeks and finally, finally blinking bloodshot eyes up at Yaz. When she goes to talk, though, only swift, shuddering breaths break free from her throat. 

“Hey, hey,” Yaz murmurs gently, crouching to her level when her eyes widen in silent panic upon the realisation she can’t control her breathing any longer. “Breathe with me, Doctor.”

Yaz wants to reach out, to curl a hand around hers and pull her in against her, but she has to regain her authority over her lungs first. 

The Doctor watches on helplessly, eyes begging while her words cannot. 

“Deep breath in, Doctor,” Yaz demands firmly this time, taking an exaggerated breath in silent communication. “Stop thinking about anything else, just focus on your breathing, okay?”

“Lungs,” the Doctor gasps, and Yaz observes as she counts on her fingers until she exhales again, then repeats the process. “Must’ve —” she coughs, shielding her mouth with her palm, where it hovers akin to her body language on the plane only a week previous. “— gotten some rusty ones this time —” another steadying breath and a weak hiccup, a stray tear falling, unnoticed, from the corner of her damp eyes. “—Around, huh?” 

_Has she had panic attacks before?_

Yaz baulks at the knowledge that, in fact, she has no knowledge at all. Then, her heart tears in two, because if she _has_ , it means she’s suffered from them alone. 

And now she’s joking about as though it’s all hilarious and she hadn’t just suffered a minor breakdown.

The Doctor notices Yaz’s quickening pulse and crestfallen expression with a weak frown, breaths still straining against her lungs but slowing with each count to four she takes. “Thank you,” she manages, exhaustedly drawing herself up straighter.

“Easy, Doctor,” Yaz whispers, bracing a hand against the Doctor’s shoulder to keep her still for now. “You did really well, but I don’t think you should get up quite yet.” She sits down beside her if only to keep her in place, so it’s a shock when she suddenly has an armful of gangly, sniffling time lord. 

The Doctor muffles a quiet, pathetic sort of noise against her shoulder, where she presses her hot, clammy forehead as Yaz’s arms curl protectively around her middle. 

“You still don’t have to tell me anything right now, so long as you promise you will whenever you’re ready, okay?” Yaz maintains, nose nestled against the crown of her head, breathing her in. She can feel the tension beneath the hands pressed against her back, can sense her protesting lungs and heavy breaths. “Just — if there’s one thing your stubborn brain learns from this, it’s that you don’t have to suffer alone like this, Doctor. We’re here for you, all of us.” 

“Okay, admittedly, Graham thinks everything can be solved by a cup of tea and a biscuit, but you know what I mean,” Yaz adds when the Doctor simply sighs against her shoulder, refusing to draw away in a contrast to her usual restrained, touch-averse self. 

She earns a teary scoff, though, so something seems to be working. 

“What I’m trying to say, Doctor, is that we’re your family. We’re always here for the ups, for the adventures, for the fun, but we’re also here for the downs, for the support, for a shoulder to cry on. You need to realise that, you dafty,” she voices, lifting a hand to card through blonde locks. Her hair is smoother than she’d imagined and smells like — oh. _That’s_ where her shampoo had disappeared to. 

The Doctor’s hair smells like her own, coconut with a hint of engine oil. 

“Family,” the Doctor hums, voice croaky with emotion. “You really mean that?”

“Yeah,” Yaz replies in a whisper when the Doctor draws her head back to seek the sincerity clear as day in her eyes. “I do, so you better start believing it.” 

_Maybe_ , the Doctor ponders when she sinks into her arms again, revelling in the contact she can’t seem to draw away from without feeling a little empty and out of sorts. _Maybe home doesn’t always have to be somewhere physical after all._

When Yaz yawns against the top of her head but otherwise retains her hold on the deceptively light alien, the Doctor closes her eyes and settles in for the long haul. 

_Maybe it’s within the warmth and security of those one loves,_ she concludes. The thought alone is enough to assuage the grief clinging, persistent and stubborn to the surface of weathered hearts.


End file.
